


nightmares are a bitch (but at least you're here)

by thefullkamski



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Cuddle Buddies, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, but less, connor is concerned, hank is emotionally stunted (but not as much as he could be), overly perceptive connor, so is Hank, totally platonic yup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 16:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15416715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefullkamski/pseuds/thefullkamski
Summary: “I came out of stasis when I heard noises from your room. I'm sorry Hank, I didn't mean to intrude on your privacy.”Hank lets out a sigh, amused despite the anxiety still writhing in his gut. “Maybe don't barge into my room every time you hear something unusual, yeah?”“You sounded like you were in distress,” Connor clarifies, giving him a look that clearly says don't be difficult.AKA: Hank has a nightmare. Luckily, Connor never leaves him the hell alone.





	nightmares are a bitch (but at least you're here)

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another snippet! With maybe a sort of plot for once.

Hank dreams.

He dreams of that night in the CyberLife warehouse, dreams about his gun hovering between two identical Connors. He dreams about trying to decipher their two ID numbers, only to find out they're exactly the same, down to the mark. He tries to scan both their faces, to see the telltale twitches only his Connor's brows would do, but even that doesn't help him. He-- dreams? remembers?-- shooting one Connor in the face, convinced that he was making the right choice.

A part of his brain, the part that's always awake, always watching, knows for a fact he picked correctly. Hank dreams, though. Shoots Connor right between the eyes. Looks down at his corpse, looks back up at the remaining Connor, except this one smirks, mocking him, walking away.

“ _Wrong choice, Lieutenant.”_

A ball of ice forms in his stomach and spreads to his brain and his eyes and his throat and his goddamn lungs, freezing him in place, horror-struck, shaking, he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe-

“Lieutenant?”

“ _He really liked you, lieutenant. That's what killed him.”_

“Hank!”

Hank slams his body upwards, dragging in a shuddering mix of a gasp and a groan, flails his arms out to get Connor off him because he shouldn't be there, couldn't be there, Hank shot him, killed him, fucking killed him, god, he fucked up, he always fucks up.

He buries his head in his hands, grabbing a fistful of hair, pulling at it, curling up on himself and taking in ragged uneven breaths, eyes wide and staring down at his lap because closing them would bring back the images of Connor's corpse. His shoulders hurt when he breathes. His heart is pounding in his chest, feels like it might rip its way out at any given moment.

A hand grazes his shoulder, feather light. Hank shudders and instinctively draws his shoulders around his head. He finally starts to come around, eyes adjusting to the darkness of his room. Looking up, he sees that Connor is at a respectful distance from him, LED flashing blue, sitting on the side of his bed, arm outstretched, hand hovering awkwardly over Hank, as if trying to decide whether to touch him or leave him be.

He's alive. Hank stares.

Connor's voice is quiet, tinged with concern. Alive. “Try to breathe, Hank.”

Hank tries to breathe.

It's fucking hard. His throat feels too raw, his chest too tight. It hurts like hell. But Hank is no stranger to nightmares and their aftermath. Besides, Connor's alive and his hand is back on his shoulder-- it tightens briefly, grounding him. Eventually Hank manages to line up a few relatively calm breaths, methodically forcing himself to relax his back, his shoulders, his arms. He knows how to do this. He looks down at his hands and realizes they're trembling, slightly curled inwards from lack of circulation. He flexes them.

“Fuck,” Hank grits out, shakier than he expected. Embarrassment starts to rear its ugly head but he firmly pushes it away.

Connor's hand slides into his upturned one, slow and gentle, fingers resting against his open palm. They're cooler than Hank's. It's refreshing. “I came out of stasis when I heard noises from your room. I'm sorry Hank, I didn't mean to intrude on your privacy.”

Hank lets out a sigh, amused despite the anxiety still writhing in his gut. “Maybe don't barge into my room every time you hear something unusual, yeah?”

“You sounded like you were in distress,” Connor clarifies, giving him a look that clearly says _don't be difficult_. “I was worried you might have been in danger.”

“Did you analyze me through the goddamn door?”

“Maybe.”

“... Connor.”

“Only a cursory analysis, Hank, I assure you.”

“Connor.”

Connor actually looks away for a second, the sly bastard, then looks back to him and admits: “I detected slight arrhythmia and muscle spasms. Your breathing was much quicker than average and you were sweating. Further observation showed that you had been in REM sleep for 45 minutes. As a safety measure, I originally wanted to be sure that you woke up during a lighter sleep stage, but given your levels of cortisol and adrenaline production, I thought it safer to-”

“Okay, seriously, do you ever talk like a normal person-”

“I deduced you were having a nightmare and decided to try and wake you up.”

“Don't you know it's dangerous to wake someone up mid-dream?” Hank grumbles.

“A common myth that usually applies to humans suffering from sleepwalking. Studies show that rousing someone from sleep actually causes no lasting heart conditions or brain damage, only mild disorientation that could lead to aggression-”

“I was kidding Connor, christ, spare me the scientific explanations.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“What, scientific explanations?”

Connor gives him another look. “The nightmare you were having.”

Hank pauses and takes a moment to look Connor in the eye. Usually his first and immediate response would be no, fuck no, not a fucking chance in hell, but Hank thinks —actually _thinks—_ about it. Telling Connor about his nightmare would surely rehash some memories that were no doubt confusing and hurtful to him. Watching Hank shoot a perfect copy of him couldn't have been easy. Besides, Hank wasn't one to share his feelings or keep a goddamn dream diary.

But this was Connor. Connor, who had been with him from the start, who hugged Hank back at Chicken Feed, who had moved in without really asking (not that he needed to), who had made Hank's house feel like a home again, who dragged him outside for short morning jogs, who pet Sumo whenever possible, who cooked for him on occasion, who never failed to add dry commentary to a tense situation. Connor, who had been such an integral part of Hank's slow-going recovery that Hank actually wonders how the hell he could've managed without him.

Connor, who's still looking at him inquisitively, head cocked, but doesn't push.

Hank's sweaty t-shirt sticks to his back, and that's why his spine feels tingly. That's the only reason. Yup.

Deciding to backtrack the hell away from that train of thought, he gets up from his bed on slightly wobbly legs and heads to his closet, peeling off his t-shirt and almost tripping over a pile of dirty socks along the way. “How bout we wait until tomorrow before I pour my fucking heart out?”

When Connor doesn't immediately respond, Hank has a brief and ridiculous moment of self-consciousness and quickly finds a ratty old band t-shirt to yank over his head, just in case Connor was watching him the whole time.

(Not that he feels especially bad about the shape he's in, he's making progress on that front, but damn it, he just isn't _there_ yet, okay?)

Connor's voice snaps him out of his thoughts, the way it so often does. “That would probably be for the best, considering the time. You should get some more sleep.”

Thinking about going back to sleep makes the skin on his shoulder blades crawl and anxiety comes oozing slow and dull back into his stomach. He turns around. “Why, what time is it?”

“3:52 AM.”

“Fuck.”

“Yes.”

Hank lets out a startled laugh that feels a bit strained at this point. Connor's doing his weird half-smile thing, but it's directed at him, eyes soft, and Hank stares just a bit longer than he should, hovering between his closet and the bed. His legs are telling him to walk forward, his brain is telling him to run the hell away. Firmly deciding that his brain's an asshole, he walks anyway and sits heavily on the side of his bed. It feels cold and just damp enough to be uncomfortable.

He's acutely aware that Connor's observing him, so he tries to act as natural as possible and lies down, drawing his messed up sheets over his chest, crossing his arms over them. Shivers a bit. Lets out a huff. He's fine, see? Normal Hank stuff.

His guts are twisting though, trying their damnedest to form a knot in his stomach.

There's a couple options to choose from. He could get back up, declare he's not tired, go pour himself a drink or three and sit in front of the TV until he passes out drunk on the couch. Likely outcome: Connor would be concerned. He could let Connor leave and try to go back to sleep, which he knows in advance would just bring back the nightmares, probably even more warped and creepy the second time around. Likely outcome: Connor would be concerned. Or-

“I can stay with you until you fall asleep if you'd like?”

-or his fucking partner could read his fucking mind. Outcome: Hank is concerned.

He clears his throat, wincing at how loud it sounds. “To be clear: androids don't actually have telepathy, right?”

“None, just deductive reasoning,” Connor says, trying and failing to not sound amused. Asshole.

Hank snorts, a grin fighting its way onto his face. He lifts the blanket. “Get in here, you prick.”

He's not exactly sure why he expects Connor to hesitate. They've never done this, they might be crossing a weird unspoken line with this. He figures he'd just pull an android and lie ramrod straight on his back and pretend to count sheep or some shit. But Connor is Connor, and Connor doesn't half-ass anything. He swings his legs onto the bed and does a ridiculously graceful slide to nestle himself under the blanket, head resting on the pillow across from Hank, facing him. Hank assumes he'd stop there, but Connor actually shifts his pillow until it touches his and shimmies forward to press his hip to Hank's, leans his head almost against his shoulder. Their knees are touching. It takes everything Hank has to not tense up at the sudden closeness.

Connor really doesn't half-ass anything. Hank's not even surprised.

A short silence stretches until Connor murmurs: “Is this okay?” Uncertain.

Hank sighs through his nose. Feeling a sudden surge of confidence, he snakes his arm under both their pillows, pulling Connor closer by the back of the neck until his forehead presses against Hank's chest. Connor's hair tickles his nose. He tries to relax, and he's not blushing because this is normal, this is a normal thing that friends do and Hank is _perfectly comfortable_ with physical intimacy, thank you very much.

“Yeah Connor, this is fine.”

Because it is.

It is fine.

Connor mumbles something, muffled by Hank's chest, but he doesn't make efforts to move his head away, so Hank assumes it wasn't of capital importance. He hums a vague noise of assent and swipes his thumb against the back of Connor's hairline, back and forth, feeling the short hairs against his skin. It's relaxing.

Hank isn't sure when he starts to doze off, which he takes as a good sign. He's pleasantly warm and considerably less jittery, legs relaxing until they feel heavy and useless, eyes closed but blissfully free of any sort of clear image.

In the blurred moments before he falls asleep, he feels a shift, a brush of something gentle against his jaw and hears a soft, whispered: “Goodnight, Hank.”

He smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> hank: god fuck damnit holy shit  
> connor: hank you okay  
> hank: yes connor just peachy  
> hank:  
> hank: hold me


End file.
